


Under the Tree

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [19]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-22
Updated: 2010-12-22
Packaged: 2019-11-24 20:32:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18169601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: For Andy's first meaningful Christmas, Mark wants to do things right.





	Under the Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Belongs to [MOLSU](https://archiveofourown.org/series/937383). 
> 
> Disclaimer: You know the drill: What's Helen's is Helen's, and what's mine is mine.

Mark Darcy had read—hell, he had _written_ —some of the densest, driest, most legally convoluted and complicated documents ever to exist. They were, however, unmatched by the document he was reading through right now. He did not want to admit it, but he thought that just perhaps he might soon have to admit defeat.

All of this self-inflicted torture was in the name of putting together a toy.

"Let me have a look."

Mark looked up from where he sat on the floor at the sound of his brother's voice. He resolved instantly not to give in just yet. "Peter," he said in a clipped tone, as he flipped the page in the booklet with authority. "I'm not through reading yet."

Peter laughed. "You've been on the same page for five minutes. You are not _that_ bad of a reader."

It was an important achievement: assembling the first Christmas present for his two-and-a-half-year old son that required such complicated assembly, and Mark was going to do it right. The look on his face must have been adequately stern, because it caused Peter to burst out with a laugh. 

"I don't understand why you can't just begin and read it as you go," he said.

"I want to make sure I have all the necessary tools here before I begin," Mark explained. "I don't want to have to stop in midway through. I'll lose my place."

"Unlikely," Peter said. "Your mind's like a steel trap. You could probably set it aside for three days then pick up exactly where you left off."

"You flatter me," he said drolly.

Finally satisfied that he had all of the requisite tools to begin, Mark admitted his brother was probably right, and that he should just work through the pages. Surely he possessed enough intelligence to follow the instructions without needing to analyse every step and anticipate what might go wrong. It was, after all, just a rocking horse. Surely men and women all over Britain with feebler minds than his own built this object for their precious children every day without failing or fretting over it quite as much as he was doing.

He could not, however, locate Part B, which was probably one of the more crucial parts: the seat. He was sure it was there, sure he had seen it and held it with his own hands, but with the packing material and plastic used to secure the parts during transport obscuring his immediate surroundings, it had quite simply disappeared.

"Peter," he said. "Have you seen the seat?"

"The what?"

"The seat. Part B. It's just not here."

"Oh, for the love of _God_ , Mark. It's behind you."

This third voice booming out from behind Mark startled him. It was his uncle, who had come to stay for the Christmas holidays, and who had apparently been standing there long enough to hear most of the conversation.

"Thank you, Nick," said Mark, swivelling to reach for the wayward part.

"How's it going?" This was now his wife's voice, coming in from behind his uncle, perky considering she had just gotten their son, Andrew, down for bed for the night, which was no easy feat considering it was Christmas Eve and he was old enough to appreciate it.

"Obviously, it's not gone anywhere, child," commented Nick, making a bee-line for the scotch and pouring himself a serving. She went and took a seat by the fire, poking through the mince pies and eyeing the brandy for Father Christmas.

"Give him a break," commented Peter. "Perfectionists don't work quickly."

"Your support is appreciated," said Mark.

"I'm sure your dear boy would like to actually have this done by Christmas morning. Come on, let's have a look, shall we?" asked Nick as he dropped to sit on the ottoman, free hand extended. Mark complied; one simply did not refuse Nick's request. "And you have all the tools?"

He nodded. "Ready to go."

After perusing the manual for several minutes, Nick took the seat in hand, examining it from all angles. "Hand me the chair back, will you?"

Peter crouched and found the chair back. Mark spotted his wife with a mince pie sticking out of her mouth and the snifter of brandy in her hand. "Bridget, what are you doing?"

"Well, they _are_ Uncle Nick's, and therefore superior to anything I could purchase at M&S," she said as she chewed, then swallowed. "Plus, we must make Andy believe Father Christmas enjoyed his treat… and really, who wants to let good brandy go to waste?"

Andy had been too small for the previous two Christmases (six months old, and a year and a half old, respectively) to understand the nuances of holiday traditions, but this year he had been very excited to get the mince pies set up and the stocking fixed to his little bed.

"Smart girl, she is," muttered Nick, getting the next piece and fixing it into place. Mark resigned himself to allowing Nick to do it; at the rate he had himself been going, it really would have taken all night. Mark turned to push himself to his feet. "Where do you think you're going?" Nick asked.

"You've got everything under control," Mark said.

"Nonsense," said Nick. "I can't reach everything from where I am, and I'm not about to sit on the bloody floor. Stay put."

It became evident within a few more minutes that Nick was having a hard time with the screwdriver. Mark realised that this was because Nick did not have his glasses on, and for whatever reason (stubbornness, pride; it was hard to tell) he either did not ask anyone to bring them to him, or did not get up to get them himself.

"That's the wrong screw, Nick," said Peter after a moment of observation.

He glared up at his nephew, then handed the rocking horse and the screwdriver to Mark. "Get the right screw, then fasten it just so."

Mark did as told, and within half an hour of following Nick's instruction, the entire rocking horse was put together. It wasn't very large, but it was big enough to last little Andy for a couple of years, at least. After gathering the packaging up to dispose of it, Mark rose and placed the toy beneath the tree. Bridget went out of the room mentioning something about a finishing touch, then returned with a giant red ribbon, which she tied around the horse's neck into a fancy bow. Mark then stood back to admire his work. He felt Bridget's hand slide across his back, then she rose to peck his cheek. "Well done, Daddy," she said affectionately. "Here, this is for you." She held up the carrot.

"You get the mince pies and the brandy," he asked with mock offence, "and I get the carrot?"

"You are the natural choice for the role of reindeer," she retorted.

With a laugh he took it from her and began to gnaw upon the end, creating what he hoped very much could pass (in the eyes of a toddler, anyway) for the work of a reindeer's teeth.

"Oh, well done again, sir," she said with due admiration as he held it up for her inspection. She then wrapped her arms around him for a lengthy, warm hug.

"Well," said Peter, "that boy of yours will likely rise with the sun to see if Father Christmas has come by, so we'd better bring out the gifts and get ourselves to bed."

"Too true," said Bridget, pulling back. "We're going to be run ragged."

Mark turned to Nick. "Thanks for your help. It would have taken me 'til the morning to finish that without you."

"I know," he said, but then offered the barest hint of a smile. "But there's no need to thank me. It's a pleasure to do anything that will bring a smile to that boy's face. So like you as a child, Mark."

Nick was not known for bouts of sentimentality, though since the birth of his grandnephew they had been occurring with greater frequency. Mark was sure not to call attention to them when they did occur, because he knew his uncle would spout denials, then ensure a tight rein on his emotions to keep it from happening again.

In complete silence and with a light foot, Mark, Bridget, Peter and Nick went to fetch their respective caches of gifts. After organising the wrapped presents beneath the tree and placing a few smaller ones in Andy's stocking (as well as hiding all evidence of the rocking horse's construction), they had a bit more holiday cheer (in the form of additional brandy and mince pies) before retiring to their respective bedrooms. Upon entering the master suite, Bridget made a little sound of surprise. "Where did this come from?" she asked, indicating a stocking that was hanging from one of the bed posters and obviously bulging with a gift.

"I don't know what you mean," Mark said with a crooked grin.

"Well, hell," she said with a pout.

"I would have thought you'd be pleased," he said, confused.

"Oh, I am," she said, "but I was hoping to get mine in place first."

He chuckled.

"When did you even do this?"

"I don't think it would be wise to reveal my secrets," Mark said in all seriousness.

"Ah," she said. "Well, then. I'll just have to try to pry it out of you." She got up on her toes and gave him a lengthy, lovely kiss.

………

"Mummy! Daddy!"

The sound of Andy's excited voice pierced the air at what Mark thought was surely too early an hour. Upon looking at the clock, he saw it was eight. The scent of coffee and possibly pancakes or waffles was wafting up from the lower levels.

"Come on, Daddy," said Bridget's groggy voice. "Happy Christmas; we're on." She pushed herself up and looked at the time. "Well, I suppose that could have been much worse."

"Like six."

She inhaled deeply. "Oooh, I think Uncle Nick's got breakfast going."

"I think you're right." He reached to kiss her. "Happy Christmas."

Mark could see the door to the room swing open just as Andy's voice sounded out again, his little hands tugging insistently on the duvet. "Mummy, he was here! Daddy, I wanna go downstairs!"

"Did you get down from your bed all on your own?" he asked as he reached down to lift the boy up onto the bed with them.

"Yes!" said Andy, then apparently continued on with the previous thread unabated: "And he put things in my stocking! And I saw yours too! Can I see what he brought?"

"Sure, let's go and have a look."

"I mean you, Daddy," said Andy. "I already looked at mine."

 _Never underestimate the ingenuity of a child determined to get to presents_ , thought Mark wryly. A glance to Bridget told him she too was surprised he had managed to get his stocking down from the rather high sleigh-bed-style footer on his toddler's bed. He imagined the contents were now scattered across the floor.

"You didn't eat any candy you might have got, did you?" asked Mark.

"No," he said guiltily, though the smudge of chocolate on his chin gave him away.

"Takes after you," joked Mark, reaching to clean the chocolate off. "Andy, you know you shouldn't eat candy before anything else."

"But it's Christmas," Andy said earnestly. "And it's not candy, it's chocolate."

"Excellent point," she said with a smile, making Mark chuckle a bit.

As Mark stood and detached the stockings from the end of the bed, he noticed Bridget looking rather apprehensive. "Um, Mark, is there anything in my stocking," Bridget began quietly, "that young eyes shouldn't see?"

He smiled. What was she expecting to be in there? "Nothing scandalous, darling," said Mark, handing it to her.

Within the stocking she found some chocolates—he would have been sleeping on the sofa for a week had there been no chocolates in there—then pulled up a length of red silk with white faux fur trimming the lower edge. It was a pretty little nightie he'd found for her, one steeped in the holiday spirit and one he hadn't wanted to give to her in front of the family. She held it up by its thin straps. He grinned. She raised a brow, but was smiling in a subdued way.

"Thank you," she said, a blush tingeing her cheek. "Was expecting something more… sheer." Mark chuckled.

"Soft," said Andy, reaching to touch the fur.

Mark found in his own stocking a small box of truffles with Bailey's Irish Cream centres, as well as a container of salve for achy muscles which made him smile; she was so good about trying to relieve the tension that tended to gather in his shoulders, always on the lookout for new balms and unguents for when she gave him a neck rub. The gentle, tender touch and care for him made it something he cherished.

He leaned forward and gave her a kiss. "Thank you."

Andy's fingers grabbing his earlobe returned his attention to the present. Seeing this, she laughed and said, "Yes, love, we'll go downstairs now."

Bridget slipped into her robe as Andy tried to slide down off of the bed; Mark caught him just before he reached the ground for a soft landing. The moment Andy's feet touched the ground he dashed from the room and ran for the stairs. Mark donned his own robe and together they walked towards where Andy waited impatiently at the safety gate at the top of the stairs. Bridget lifted Andy to her hip to carry him while Mark opened the latch on the gate, then they all filed downstairs.

As Bridget stepped onto the floor Andy began wriggling to be let down. When she set him to the floor, just like a wind-up toy he dashed away and into the sitting room. Within a few seconds, the squeal of delight could be heard on every floor; that was the only explanation for Nick showing up after a few more minutes with a pair of coffee mugs for the two of them, and Peter wandering down groggily shortly after that.

Andy stood there frozen, completely mesmerised by the display before him: the tree in its decorated glory, glowing with what seemed like a night sky's worth of fairy lights and shiny ornaments. Beneath that was an array of gifts that was breath-taking to behold, and Mark knew very well that most of them were for Andy.

"We're going to spoil him rotten," Mark murmured to his wife.

"The mere fact that we're aware of the possibility of spoiling him means that we won't," she countered smugly. She looked up to him. "Can we open one?"

"Absolutely not," said Mark. "We let him open one, then he'll want to open more, and my parents and yours will be annoyed beyond reason if that happens before they get here."

"I mean me and you," she said.

He chuckled. "If we do then he'll want to."

She pouted. "This whole 'setting a good example' thing is sometimes for the birds."

He chuckled, then accepted the coffee the incoming Nick offered. "Thought you might need some," he said. "Have Belgian waffles downstairs."

"What about me?" said Peter.

"One, only have two hands. Two, you don't have a child who has recently entered into the so-called 'terrible twos'." Nick walked to where Andy still stood, then crouched beside him. "Andy, my boy, are you hungry?"

He shook his head. "I had a chocolate, Uncle Nick."

"You had a chocolate, did you?" he asked, looking accusingly at Mark. "Who gave you a chocolate?"

"I gave it to me," he said. "I got it out of my stocking from Father Christmas." He looked to his great uncle. "He brought Mummy a pretty nightgown, though it's really small and doesn't look very warm to sleep in at night."

"Father Christmas did?" Nick looked to Mark with a knowing smirk.

Bridget covered her reddening face with her hand. "So much for that."

"And what did Father Christmas bring for your father?" Nick asked.

"Some stinky cream because he's old."

At this Bridget burst out into a little laugh, then explained what the balm was for.

"So your daddy's old, is he?" asked Nick good-naturedly, taking Andy by the hand as he rose to his full height. "If he's old, then what am I?"

"A dinosaur, like a T Rex!"

At this they all started to laugh. "Old and fierce: that sounds about right," chuckled Peter.

"Let's go have breakfast before it turns stone cold," said Nick as they walked to the stairs. As they approached he crouched to pick up Andy; Mark saw him try to hide a small wince as he stood again.

"Nick, I can carry him if you want," said Mark.

"No, that's okay, I have him." After a moment he added, "I suppose it's my own fault for asking."

"You should be grateful he didn't call you a brontosaurus," quipped Bridget.

………

Andy ate his breakfast quickly. It was obvious why: he was eager to get back to the room with the presents. "When Gran and Granny and your grandfathers get here, then we can see what Father Christmas brought for you," explained Bridget patiently. "Slow down before you choke on something."

Andy pouted in such a way that left no doubt as to who his mother was.

They were just finishing up and clearing the table when the doorbell sounded. Excitedly Andy began to bounce in his chair. Bridget cleaned his face of sticky apple topping then lifted him up again and onto the floor. Together the two of them went up the stairs (it was more expedient for Bridget to carry him, even though he was capable of climbing stairs on his own). Mark was soon to follow, carrying their coffees, along with Nick and Peter.

"Father Christmas came here!" Andy exclaimed the very moment the door opened to reveal his grandparents, who had all driven together into London.

"Well, of course he did, durr!" proclaimed Pam as they all came into the house with carrier bags of more wrapped gifts. "Why wouldn't he come pay a visit to such a good boy as yourself? He probably had you at the top of his list." She crouched to give him a hug and a kiss.

"You have been a good boy, haven't you?" This from Malcolm, running his hand over the boy's hair, as Elaine kissed Mark on the cheek and Andy answered in the affirmative.

"Happy Christmas," Elaine said, in the midst of all of this chaos.

"And to you," he said, pecking her on the cheek in return. "Drive went well I hope?" His mother moved to peck her daughter-in-law's cheek and give her a hug.

"Swimmingly," said Malcolm, giving his son a fatherly shoulder clap. "Clear as a bell."

"Indeed, we made good time. Hello, Andy!" Colin set the carrier bags he was toting down and bent to pick up his grandson. "How's my big guy today?"

"Want to see presents!" he exclaimed.

Colin tried not to laugh. "Well, something tells me we ought to get started," he said, "as we are in danger of running out of Christmas before we run out of presents."

They filed into the sitting room, and at the sight of the near-mountain of gifts, Mark thought that perhaps his father-in-law's jest might have been spot on.

As predicted, most of the gifts under the tree were in fact for Andy. He had great fun tearing into paper and discovering toys (not so much fun when the gift was a jumper or a packet of socks). Mark could not help but notice that when all was said and done and all gifts were laid bare, Andy's attention went first and foremost back to the hobby horse that he, Nick and (peripherally) Peter had assembled the night before.

"Daddy, help me up!" he demanded after being frustrated in trying (and failing) to get onto the seat on his own.

"Here you are," said Peter, who was in closer proximity to the boy.

"No, I want Daddy!" Andy said.

"Just let me," said Mark, reaching for Andy and lifting him into the seat. "He's in need of a nap, I think. Don't want anything to set him off further." Once settled, he began to rock back and forth happily.

Mark turned at the sound of his name to receive the gift that Bridget had for him from herself and Andy. With a smile he accepted it and opened the package. He took off the wrapper to find a Tiffany's box, which he then opened to find a pair of lovely cufflinks in a curious circular shape. He raised one up out of the box to examine it more closely.

"The style's called the Eternity Circle," Bridget explained, drawing a little circle with her finger over the shape.

"Oh?"

"Because a circle has no beginning or end," she went on. "It's eternal, like how much I— _we_ —love you."

He chuckled then leaned to kiss her. "I love you too, and I love them. When I wear them, I'll look at them and think of you. My family." She beamed up proudly with a smile.

"Mark! Bridget! Look, how sweet!"

Pam's hushed yet excited voice drew their attention towards her, then to where she was pointing: Andy was on the rocking horse, leaning forward against the horse's head, and was fast asleep, his thumb tucked into his mouth.

"Poor little lamb," said Elaine. Mark felt his mother put her hand on his arm. "That brings back memories. Seems like only yesterday I was watching you knock off under the tree at that age."

He heard Bridget chuckle.

As much as he liked the scene, he knew Andy needed to take a proper nap, so he stepped forward to sweep him up and into his arms. He looked down on the deceptively angelic sleeping child—he was more like his mother than not—and could only smile fondly, then leaned to kiss him on the forehead.

It had only just begun, and already it was a most perfect holiday.

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> [Eternal Circle Cuff Links by Tiffany & Co.](http://www.tiffanynewyork.net/london_product_tiffany-accessories/tiffany-cuff-links/tiffany-and-co-eternal-circle-cuff-links/)


End file.
